


Shrödinger’s Cat (or why Shrödinger needed an LSD)

by tari_roo



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Captivity, Gen, Hurt, Hurt John Sheppard, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-08
Updated: 2010-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tari_roo/pseuds/tari_roo





	Shrödinger’s Cat (or why Shrödinger needed an LSD)

  


Prompt fic: Shrödinger’s Cat (or why Shrödinger needed an LSD)  
Autor: Tari_Roo  
Fandom: SGA/SG1  
Rating: Gen, PG13  
Characters: Sheppard, Mitchell, OCs  
Disclaimer: If they were mine, SGA would still be on, and SG1 would guest star on a regular basis. Alas, this is not so. And SGU would make sense because Rodney figured out how to turn Destiny around  
Spoilers: None, really, but this is post all seasons.  
AN: [](http://kriadydragon.livejournal.com/profile)[**kriadydragon**](http://kriadydragon.livejournal.com/)  , on whose LJ I lurk, had a prompt of: “ _Sheppard, on earth or another planet, is beat up and put into a crate to be shipped to a buyer who wants him for his ATA gene. One of the team, an original character, or someone from SG-1 finds him in a warehouse and has to get him out. But besides being beat up John is also dehydrated, possibly drugged and so confused, and the warehouse is heavily guarded.”_ I thought, yeah, that’d be a great fic and then, I wrote this. Go figure. A three act prompt fic with crossover that does not meet all the requirements but close enough.

 

Act I

It was probably the sensation of them sliding the catheter in that really woke him up. He’d been vaguely aware in a distant, disconnected sort of way of the feeding tube being slowly, carefully, gently threaded into a nostril and the tickling trickling down his throat. The IV ports had been more distinct, but the initial insertion had been so quick that the lingering ache, sharp and uncomfortable was lost in the haze of foul tasting, medicine heavy air. He could feel the mask over his face and was half wondering if Keller had him on oxygen as well as some sort of drug treatment.

It all felt so familiar, unwelcome, but familiar. Soft, gentle hands of some nurse or doctor ensuring that he was cared for, on his way to recovery. There was however the vague worry of not really remembering what had happened, and even though that worry was familiar too, it didn’t feel quite the same. John Sheppard was well acquainted with the easy ebb and flow of a morphine induced stupor, but there was no suppressed ache or scream of pain buried beneath the soft touch of opiates. 

So it was the very distinct sensation of a catheter that cleared the fog a little. Catheters meant a whole slew of unpleasant things – too hurt to move, too weak for a bed pan, too unconscious... only Sheppard could feel that he was on his side, knees nearly up to his chest, legs parted slightly while a nurse secured the tube and bag. This too was ... unusual. 

That and the fact that he couldn’t move.

For a heart-rending, stomach churning moment, John leapt straight to paralysis, broken neck or back, or spinal injury and a thousand thoughts about walking, running, flying, pissing, making love and just damn feeding himself ran pinwheel through his mind. A small litany of ‘No, no, no, no.’ whirled through him until he twitched, flinched reflexively as the nurse tucked him in and closed his legs. 

Curling his toes, stretching his fingers followed and sweet relief flooded through him. ‘Thank...’

The soft prayer of gratitude died though when John tried to stretch out a little, flex his arms... and couldn’t. His eyes flew open and he immediately blinked, eyes tearing at the bright light. Someone, an indistinct shape against the harsh light, lent over him and he heard, “The drugs wearing off, he’s waking up.”

From behind, John heard movement and then “Doesn’t matter. We’re nearly done and then you can administer the next dose when he’s in the box.”

‘What?’

Sheppard tried to turn, to see who was behind him but unseen hands stopped him, easily pinning him in place. Still blinking, trying to clear his blurry vision, John tried to see whose hand it was holding him down. More than one pair of hands suddenly touched him, lifting his hands, his _bound_ hands, and wrapping soft material over his forearms, careful of the IVs and then placing right hand on left forearm and vice versa, wrapping, tying palm to forearm, palm to forearm, from elbow to elbow. At the same time, more hands securing his knees, wrapping them together, ankles already bound. 

Instinctively, John struggled but whatever drug had kept him immobile made him sluggish, dull and what should have been thrashing and kicking was reduced to twitches and flinches, a moan of frustration. 

They bent his knees, folded them to his chest and continued to wrap material around his legs, thighs and calves meeting, the catheter a sharp discomfort. His captors swam in and out of focus as they moved around him on the gurney and it didn’t help that they wore surgical masks and caps and seemed interchangeable, genderless, mysterious. 

Whatever was going on, it did not bode well, nor the idea that a ‘box’ awaited him. Vainly searching his memory for anything, any sort of clue as to how and why he was at the mercy of these people, Sheppard continued to struggle, no matter how ineffective it was. 

“We gonna wrap him up all the way?”

“Hmph, I’m not sure they’d appreciate the humour in getting a mummy, but no. Just make sure he can’t hurt himself too much or get free.”

The preceding events, days, hours, whatever had led to this remained a blank, a wash of nothingness and that scared Sheppard even more. Had his team been with him, was he on Atlantis, Earth? The room, what he could see of it beyond the bright lights, did not look like Atlantis and beneath the oxygen mask, he could only smell the tang of the drug. The sheets and bed left like a normal hospital gurney, but that didn’t mean anything. The oxygen mask, catheter and mummy reference though – that meant humans, earth humans. And probably not friendlies – definitely not friendlies. 

The list of non-friendly earth humans was short but unhelpful as it still meant he was on the ‘royally screwed list’. Rogue NID, Trust, Foreign Intelligence, rogue IOA, hell – it could be rogue SGC for all he knew. Nothing that helped though. 

The last of the bandages, ropes, whatever were tied and the two masked people stepped out of sight and John tried to turn to see where they went, his mind and eyesight clearing more as the drug wore off. Swallowing, gagging a little at the movement of the feeding tube, John shifted, tested his bounds but either he was still too weak or they were too strong as the wrappings barely moved. 

There was a footstep behind him and even as John turned again to try and see, a strong hand shoved his head back down, not nearly as gently as before. The feeding tube, running out underneath the oxygen mask shifted and John felt the man’s fingers, had to be a man as no woman had fingers that big, dig into his face and hairline. “Bring the tape and wrapping again.”

A large masked face loomed into view at the corner of his eye and John watched as the feeding tube and oxygen mask were taped down, tugged and secured. “Two more.”

His heart rate jumped when a large piece of tape was lowered, his eyelid shoved close and then taped shut. One of the last things John saw was the off white sheet, then floor as his face was turned and then nothing but bright red light behind closed eyes as his right eye was also taped shut. Still lifting his head, his captors quickly wrapped his entire head in the soft material, which clung to his skin, soaking up the sweat that beaded his face. 

It was a lot darker once they were done, the majority of the external light sources once vaguely seen behind closed eyes, now obscured through layers of material. Their voices were also muffled, but still audible.

“Done?”

“Yeah. Ok, bring the box closer.”

Heart still pounding, Sheppard listened intently as something was dragged, then dropped near the gurney. 

“Hey, get over here.”

More footsteps and a third person joined the mock-nurses and John felt the various wrappings and tubes checked and rechecked. “Alright, you take his feet, we’ll handle the torso – and be careful, don’t let anything catch.”

Hands beneath his feet and legs, under shoulder and hip and then he was lifted and then lowered and placed non too gently in a box, his feet banging against the stiff edge. 

“Tuck him in, bend, yeah... that’s it.”

Head shoved forward, feet up, their arms scraping against the box and his skin as they pulled out their arms, and then shoved and fitted him inside ... snugly. It was a tight fit, knees pushed against one side, bound arms pressed uncomfortably against the other, feet jammed in at the end. Only his head was relatively free, the top end of the box just brushing against his head. 

Several bags trailing tubes from his catheter and IV were tucked around him, and then a cold, metallic box or tube – perhaps an oxygen tank of some kind, was stuck between his chest and knees, pressing uncomfortably on his ribs, making the pressure of his knees and arms worse. 

“Everything good?”

“Yep.”

“Alright, dose him up.”

There was no time to prepare or panic, as there as an immediate jolt of pain at his hip and almost instantly a soft lethargy washed over him.

Whatever else was said, might have been said, was lost between the drug and the sound of the lid being closed. John tried to fight the feeling of forced calm, but not even the feeling of being totally enclosed, trapped and unable to move more than his extremities was enough to combat the tug towards apathy.

Barely aware of it, Sheppard felt the box move, then lift and then... nothing.

*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a 

Act II

“Kinda looks like the warehouse at the end of Raiders, don’ it, Colonel?”

Mitchell nodded, more concerned with watching for hostiles than making movie comparisons but Sergeant Yo was right. The place did look like the kind of warehouse where governments hid paranormal nick nacks. 

Only, they were on PR-658 and this was an old Gou’ald warehouse with the chintzy, gaudy gold hieroglyphic doors to prove it. 

“Still got the signal, Lieutenant?”

Lieutenant Jones nodded and pointed to the rear of the large room, “Far left, sir.”

A silent, watchful Sergeant Barnes took point at Mitchell’s sign, and Yo hissed, “So, are we thinking Lucian Alliance or the Trust, Colonel?”

“Stow it, Yo,” snapped the Lieutenant, but Sergeant Yo just grinned, let them go past and then took up the rear. Major Koravi was still in the infirmary with the rash he had picked up on MK-980, so Mitchell got to lead SG-25 on their intel mission. Teal’c had heard rumours of Ancient tech being sold on the black market. And one of his Jaffa had bought a small personal shield from a supposedly reputable trader – it didn’t work though. Teal’c had shown it to Daniel and Vala. Vala, naturally had spotted the Area 51 asset tag and had happily declared that she had nothing to do with it, but it seemed that Area 51 had a thief. 

Sure enough, on checking several smaller items, ones that no one was studying or had deemed _boring_ were missing from the storage rooms in Area 51 and the SGC. A few weeks later, specially tagged ancient devices were stolen and now finally, a MALP had found one. 

Quietly moving down through rows and rows of boxes of all shapes and sizes, Colonel Mitchell kept an ear open for sounds of anyone else in the warehouse. This intel op would be pointless if they didn’t find someone, someone to question and find out who was the thief back on earth. All the security cameras and access logs had been manipulated. Vala was particularly impressed with the thief, unapologetically impressed. General Landry was obviously more concerned with the breach in security and its underlying implications. 

Sergeant Barnes held up a fist and motioned that caution was in order. The four of them spread out, on either side of the corridor formed by boxes and Cameron indicated for Yo and Jones to duck down a side passage and approach the open area ahead from a different angle. The sense of open space loomed ahead, a break in all the storage units. Mitchell shuffled forward, his back to the wall as it were, his P-90 held ready. 

Fortunately, he could hear the soft murmur of voices so hopefully this mission was going yield more than a few stolen devices. Reaching the end of the row, Cameron inched forward to sneak a quick look at the lay of the land, and Barnes covered their six, checking to ensure no one was behind them. There were three men right in the middle of the clearing, several smaller stacks of boxes around them and they were opening crates and sorting through items.

The men were dressed in the strange Egyptian style favoured by the lesser gou’ald, less opulence and glitz, more practical. They weren’t Jaffa either, as their midriffs were exposed and showed only defined muscle. Cameron spotted Yo and Jones and indicated for them to wait. 

Sure enough, a fourth man appeared, walking towards his fellows from the rear of the room. There was a ring platform behind him and a large crate at its centre. The last man growled in gou’ald at the others, who were either ignoring him or already doing as instructed. Waiting a few more moments, and confident with pretty even odds, Cameron nodded at Barnes and gave Jones and Yo the signal.

P-90 ready, Mitchell stepped out from cover, heard the simultaneous sounds of Barnes and Yo reading their weapons and said cheerfully, “Howdy, boys. Y’all having a yard sale?”

Predictably, two of the Gou’ald raised zats, one a ribbon device but Jones was faster, his own zat streaking out and hitting one, then another. Mitchell fired over their heads, sending them scrambling for cover. One of them managed to fire his zat and Barnes calmly shot him and Jones dropped the last Gou’ald as he ran for cover. 

“That was easy, Colonel. We should always go on missions with you, “ Yo bounced happily in place, as Barnes secured the room, kicking zats away from nerveless fingers. Cameron leant over the Gou’ald with the ribbon device and pulled it off, muttering aloud, “Hell, I wish all missions were this easy. We clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Looking at Jones, Cameron raised an eyebrow and the Lieutenant pulled out the tracking thing. “It’s pretty close by, sir. Should be in one of these crates.”

“And we have prisoners to question,” Yo said happily, even as he walked over to start poking in the crates.

“We’ll take them back to Beta, see if we can find out who their contact on Earth is.” Barnes stayed alert and Cameron continued, “Let’s find these doo-dads and get out of here. We don’t want their buddies arriving.”

Jones and Yo started scratching through the opened crates and cracking the unopened ones and were soon pulling out a combination of ancient devices, gou’ald technology and was that an mp3 player? 

“It’s a whole friggin’ case of Ipods! No way!”

“Got it, sir.”

Jones held up the LSD and it glowed in response. 

“You got the gene, Jones?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how come Atlantis hasn’t snatched you up, yet?” 

Lieutenant Jones shrugged, his forehead crinkling in amusement, “Not for lack of trying, sir.”

Smiling a little, Mitchell turned and said to Yo and Barnes, “Tie these guys up, we’re heading out the moment they wake up enough to walk.”

Dual ‘yes sirs’ rang out but it was Jones’s “Ah, sir?” that stopped Cameron.

“Yeah?”

“I’m picking up one extra life sign.”

Immediately Barnes snapped to attention, his eyes darting around the room, P-90 covering every shady patch. Yo did likewise, albeit a little slower. “Where, Jones?”

“Uhm, that way?”

Jones pointed towards the Ring Platform and Mitchell strode towards it, shouting, “Come on out, now!”

There was no response, no movement at all. Jones, having followed him LSD still in hand, said, “Its right in front of you, sir. Kinda... weird.”

“Weird? How weird?”

“Don’t know, sir – just not the same as us, I guess.”

Yo laughed, his voice tinged with nerves, “You got us chasing rats, Lieutenant?”

Cameron however was looking down at the crate on the Platform, a hollow feeling growing in his stomach. “You think?”

“One way to find out, sir.”

Securing his P-90, Cameron nodded at Jones, who moved to cover him and the crate. There wasn’t a lock per say, more of a catch – a typical big red one the gou’ald seemed to favour and Mitchell pressed it. There was no hiss or steam of escaping air, none of the expected release of dry ice effect, just a padded lid.

But there was definitely someone inside the crate. A very naked, bound someone.

“No way!” Jones gasped, his face slack in horror or maybe just surprise.

Grimacing himself, Cameron groaned, “Just great. More naked people to rescue.”

“You’ve rescued naked people before, sir?”

“Were they naked women, sir?” Yo piped up, straining from the other side of the room to see inside box. 

“Don’t ask, Jones.”

Shoving the LSD into a pocket, Jones leant forward and skittered his fingers across the person’s throat, pushing past soft material to find a pulse. “Why’s his face covered?”

Yo jumped in, his own weapon forgotten, and said, “Maybe he’s some fugitive snake head who had plastic surgery to escape a System Lord?”

“Hey, are those guys secured, Sergeant?” Yo blanched a little at the tone and snapped to, “Yes, sir.”

“Besides,” Mitchell muttered, “a Gou’ald would just jump hosts if they wanted to hide.”

“Think it’s a snake head?”

Whatever, or whoever he was, he groaned, shifting against the restraints and confines of the crate, perhaps alerted by their voices and the feeling of open air. 

“Whoever it is, let’s get them out – anyone the gou’ald want, we should help.”

Pulling out his k-bar, Mitchell leant in and started cutting through the material restraining the prisoner, saying loudly but as reassuringly as possible, “Hey, dude. Relax, we’re here to help.”

Jones however kept his gun trained on the crate and watched nervously as Mitchell began removing the bags and a metal box ... with tubes attached.

“What the hell, sir?”

“Guess it wasn’t a short trip. Shit!”

Cam had managed to pull out the tube running under the bandages covering the guy’s face, and that did not mean good things. “Hell!”

Pulling the guy up and out of the box a little more forcefully than he should but then suffocating to death would be a higher priority than a few bruises. Scrambling to find the end, Mitchell unwrapped the bindings as fast as he could, vaguely cognisant at the surrealness of unwrapping a mummy in a gou’ald warehouse. 

Black, messy hair emerged, and then an extremely familiar profile, obscured by an oxygen mask. “What on earth... Sheppard?”

“Sir?”

Colonel John Sheppard groaned, fighting the loosened bindings, struggling to sit up, get out. “Shit, Sheppard ... wait.”

Cameron tried to gently remove the tape on Sheppard’s eyes, but John was moving too much, and ended up loosing more than a few eyelashes.

“Sir, what if it’s not ... what if he’s a clone... or replicator?”

All valid points, Mitchell agreed, but just in case this was the real John Sheppard... “Barnes, Yo, get over here but stay alert. Jones, get his feet, use your knife.”

It was a near thing, Sheppard struggling as he was, but between Jones and him they managed to cut the rest of the bindings away, grimacing at the various tubes and Sheppard was blinking in the light, eyes streaming.

“Sheppard...” 

It was a smooth, practiced move and perhaps spoke of far less confusion than he showed, because suddenly Mitchell’s service weapon was pressed against his own forehead, Sheppard’s very shaking fingers hovering over the trigger.

Jones, Barnes and Yo all automatically raised their weapons, shouts of “Drop it!” “Now!” and “No!” ringing out. 

Barely standing, knee jammed into the edge of the crate, still blinking rapidly, Sheppard’s arm was a rock, the glock steady, even if his fingers weren’t. He raised his free hand and pulled off the mask, and then the feeding tube with a sharp grimace, gagging. 

“Sheppard? John? Buddy? It’s Mitchell ... Cam – you’re safe...”

“Sir?” Jones was vibrating with indecision, Yo a mirror of nerves. Only Barnes was steady – his gaze fixed on Sheppard. 

Shaking his head, mouth moving, probably fighting the lingering taste of drugs, Sheppard growled, “Where...”

“Hey, hey ... John!” Cam yelled and fortunately Sheppard’s confused gaze swung towards him, swaying alarmingly and fingering the trigger. “Hey, buddy. You’re safe... we got you. Safe and sound.”

“Ronon?”

Moistening his mouth, fighting the urge to lick his lips, Cameron said slowly, “No, it’s Mitchell – Colonel Mitchell, SG-1.”

“SG-1?”

“Yeah ... SG-1. Rescuing you.”

Apparently that was enough and Sheppard’s arm dropped and Cam suddenly had an armful of John Sheppard, who groaned, “Crap.”

“Sir?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know – but we can figure this out at the Beta site... just in case this is the real John Sheppard.” None of SG-25 made a move though, all keeping a watchful eye on Sheppard. 

“Oh, I don’t think so, Colonel Mitchell.”

All four of them turned around to see three newly arrived Gou’ald. They all had zats pointed at them, and their previously secured prisoners were slowly standing up, rapidly turning the situation into one that had them outnumbered.

“I paid a lot of money for Colonel Sheppard, and I’m not about the let you steal him away.”

Pasting on his Jack O’Neill grin, Mitchell straightened as best he could, even as Sheppard tried to stand as well. “Well, hate to break it to you, but this a repossession, your first instalment bounced.”

“Drop your weapons.”

Cam managed to get one hand free as Sheppard stood, unsteadily, and said brightly, “I don’t suppose you’d tell us who the mole is, your little supplier on Earth? It’d make my life a hell of a lot easier.”

“Now, Colonel.” The head Gou’ald demanded, if they even were snakeheads and not petty thieves playing a being false-gods but all seven of them were now pointing weapons at SG-25 and guest Colonels. 

Strangely enough, it was Sheppard who fired first, apparently not having let go of Cam’s glock and his bullet hit a snakehead right between the eyes. Barnes was next off the mark and he dragged Yo behind a stack of boxes when he was hit with a zat blast. Jones and Mitchell dived for cover as well, hauling Sheppard along with them. 

The problem with taking cover when your opponents had zats, meant that under concerted fire, your cover disintegrated.“Damn it!” Under a hail of zat fire, Jones went down and then Cam felt the all too familiar shock of a zat blast.

*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a 

Act III

Getting drugged then stunned in the space of who knew how many days was enough to leave Sheppard feeling decidedly run over and beat to hell. This time, as he clawed his way back to consciousness, it wasn’t the sound of a southern twang that welcomed him but rather the harsh grating dual voice of a Gou’ald.

He was laying face down on something smooth and cold and it didn’t take long to find out that his wrists were secured above his head, locked in manacles attached to the surface. His ankles were similarly restrained and depressingly enough, he was still naked. 

The confusion of earlier and the lingering effects of the drug disappeared much faster this time though and John was soon able to get a good look at the room, the occupants of the room and raise his estimation of just how much trouble he was in from ‘royally screwed’ to ‘no way in hell.’

Colonel Mitchell and two other SG team members were on their knees, arms and wrists bound to metal poles across their shoulders, a Gou’ald standing over them, with a distinctly unpleasant looking stick. Its unpleasant nature was confirmed when the Gou’ald jabbed it into Mitchell’s chest and he screamed. 

“Colonel!”

Sheppard started a little and turned to look behind him and saw a young, very scared looking man strapped down on a table like his. 

“Can you get loose?” he stammered, pulling at his own bonds and Sheppard coughed a little as he tried to gather enough moisture to speak. “No. Pretty much screwed, huh?”

“Shit,” the kid groaned, still pulling at the manacles, “shit, shit, shit!”

There was another scream from the front of the room, and Sheppard could only echo the guy’s sentiment. 

“So, where are your Jaffa ... kinda strange not seeing the ole’... guys.” Cameron sounded breathless and in a lot of pain and John shifted in time to see the Gou’ald’s eyes flare.

“Once we have cleansed the galaxy of this so-called rebellion, the Jaffa will be brought back to their Gods, impudent dog!” Mitchell screamed again as the Gou’ald pressed the rod into his side. One of SG-25, a sergeant it looked like, was out cold on the floor, his eyes rolled back in his head. 

Mitchell growled through the pain and grit out, “Gotta do your own dirty work till then, huh?” The Gou’ald just smiled and slammed the rod into Cam’s throat, eliciting yet another scream. 

Looking up, the Gou’ald saw that John was awake and its smile grew wider. Tucking the rod thing under his arm, the Gou’ald strolled over, idly kicking the last relatively upright Marine to the floor. Looming over John, he grabbed a fistful of hair and turned John’s face upwards, uncaring of the pain he was causing. “Good, this is not something I want you to miss, Tauri. Time to earn your keep.”

Dropping Sheppard’s head, he walked off and John didn’t bother to turn and look – having the very real certainty that he didn’t want to see what was coming. There was a sound of something being opened and then a distinct hiss come screech and John couldn’t help but look. 

The Gou’ald was holding a writhing symbiote, a second snake still swimming in a glass box container. “Crap,” John hissed, already straining against his bonds. 

“It is useless to struggle.”

“Actually, the line is ‘Resistance is futile’ and I’d rather die, thanks,” John growled, twisting away as the Gou’ald approached. “Oh, but you are going to die, John Sheppard – nothing of the host remains.”

Just before things got really dramatic, a distant explosion rocked the room, shaking loose tiles and dirt and it was only then that Sheppard realised they were on a planet and not on a ship. A second explosion ripped through whatever structure they were in, sending the Gou’ald to his knees and that was all Mitchell and the still conscious Marine needed. Recovering remarkably well, Cameron launched himself onto the Gou’ald, driving the metal pole on his shoulders straight into the alien’s solar plexus. The marine followed that hit with one of his own, to the guy’s groin and no matter what snake was in your head, apparently both were still vulnerable spots. 

Howling in pain, the Gou’ald writhed, dropping the symbiote, which Cameron was quick to step on, even as he leant back and tried to knock the Goua’ld in the head with his pole. The Marine sergeant was faring better in that department and was wailing on the guy’s ribs. It took a sickening few minutes but eventually the Gou’ald stopped moving and Mitchell staggered to his feet, weaving unsteadily.

“Hey.”

“Your rescues suck, Mitchell.”

“Gift horse man,” Cameron sighed, and then shaking his bound arm at John said, “Think you can figure this out, unhook me.”

It wasn’t easy but eventually John managed to get enough leverage on the bolt and Cam’s hand was free. “Awesome... and it sounds like the cavalry’s here.”

By the time they were all free, the sounds of distant gun fire could be heard. With none of them exactly steady on their feet, introductions made, John now wearing some sort of gold loincloth and the unconscious Yo drapped over Jones and Barnes’s shoulders, they were set to be rescued ... again. 

Mitchell was the only one armed, with a zat no less and he took point, darting out of the room. As they all followed at his ‘all clear’, John felt a distant sort of de je vu wash over him. The walls and floor looked vaguely familiar and judging by their lack of gold and hieroglyphics were not Gou’ald originals. 

“Hmmm, weird.” Mitchell had noticed the lack of gaudy decor too but that didn’t stop him from heading towards the sound of gun fire and hopefully a couple dozen Marines. Trailing behind, watching their six, John felt the sense of de je vu grow as they passed more doorways and corridors, Cam randomly choosing passages that lead towards the sounds of battle. 

“Hey, Mitchell, wait up!” 

John stared at a pair of doors, uniform in colour and shape and... just so damn familiar. Unconsciously he waved his hand over the small device on one wall and as Cameron hustled back towards him, the doors opened, and a larger hangar like room was revealed.

“What the...” Mitchell gasped and followed John into the room. There was a railing and then a drop down what was probably several floors and Sheppard couldn’t help the smile that broke out over his face.

“Dibs.”

Stunned, Cameron barely glanced at John as he said, “No way!”

Below them, in a very reminiscent reveal, was an unfinished Ancient warship. “I guess we know why they wanted Ancient Gene carriers – had to have someone could drive this thing,” Cameron said in amazement and then turning to Sheppard said, “And no way in hell do you get to call dibs on this – how many of these things have you managed to blow up anyway?”

“Not me, Lorne. And dibs is dibs. She’s mine.”

Oh, the getting kidnapped, drugged, boxed and nearly snaked would be totally worth a working ancient warship. 

The sound of booted, marine-like feet had all of them turning around and the several dozen Marines arrived. “Colonel Mitchell, sir ... the General Hammond is in orbit, and we are here to extract you.”

“Excellent timing, Lieutenant, let’s get out of here.”

If Sam was surprised at the state of Mitchell and SG-25 she didn’t show it but that was probably mostly due to her surprise at having rescued John Sheppard as they were all beamed aboard the Hammond.

“John, what on earth?”

“Colonel, totally with you on that one.”

By the time John had been poked, prodded and hooked up to yet another IV in the Hammond’s infirmary, Sam and Cameron were making their way to him, stepping around the scurrying nurses.

“Colonels.”

“Sheppard.”

Being enveloped in a hug by Carter was a little weird but considering the day he had, it was nice... .

Pulling away, Sam smiled and said, “General Landry was pretty impressed that I’d managed to find you – he’d only just put out the alert that you were missing.”

“Yeah?” John asked, tugging down the hospital gown, which was infinitely better than a loincloth but still not BDUs. “My memory’s a blank on this one, Colonel. What happened?”

Clearing her throat a little, looking at Cameron who just shrugged, Carter said, “Well, you came to Earth on a week’s leave, something about a visit to your brother. No one knew you were missing until you didn’t show up at the Mountain yesterday. It took them awhile to confirm that you weren’t on Earth and well... Landry had just dialled Atlantis to tell them you were missing when our call came in.”

It sounded vaguely familiar but in all honesty John did not remember the wormhole back to Earth, let alone when or where he was grabbed. “So, Mitchell manages to rescue me by accident.”

“Part of my charm, apparently. I’m so good I rescue people we don’t even know are in trouble.”

“That is both reassuring and incredibly scary,” Sheppard smiled. Sam nodded, her expression serious, “Yeah, considering that we still don’t know who the mole in the SGC is, let alone how they kidnapped you.”

“But we have a whole bunch of prisoners to question,” the ever optimistic Cameron interjected.

“And an ancient warship,” Sam smiled.

“I called dibs, Colonel.” Carter just shook her head and said, “Nice try, Sheppard. I’m glad we lucked out on this one.” And with that she left to go do captainy things, nodding at Barnes and Jones who were resting on gurneys nearby. Yo was a mound of blankets still sleeping off copious amounts of morphine.

“You’re not going to let this go, huh, Sheppard?”

“Nope,” John said, firmly. “Call it compensation in kind.”

“I saved your life.”

“By accident.”

“Doesn’t matter, still counts.”

“You’ll need Rodney to fix it.”

“I can handle McKay.”

“Sure.” 

Shaking his head, Mitchell gave John an overly firm pat on the shoulder and ambled off to check on his temporary team. John lay back on his pillows, firmly locking away the events of the past few days nay week and began planning on ways to steal the _Poseidon_ , no the _Sun Tzu_ no _The Whatever_ with Rodney’s help.

*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a

The end.

  



End file.
